Mrs. Tim Flies Home

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It sounds a good place for a picnic,” I suggest.

  “Oh, it is!” declares Tony.

  Mrs. Alston says she does not care for picnics and has no car.

  Tony, somewhat damped, murmurs that there are buses to the Lion’s Gorge, but this information fails to interest Mrs. Alston.

  It has now become obvious to me that Mrs. Alston intends to outstay her fellow-guest and evidently her fellow-guest has come to the same conclusion; he rises and says he must go. Somehow I cannot bring myself to mention the expedition to Wandlebury but I feel quite absurdly disappointed.

  “Need you go? It’s still quite early,” I ask him.

  “Sorry,” replies Tony. “I’ve got to see a man in the village. It’s about a cairn terrier.”

  I feel this is going a little too far and glance anxiously at Mrs. Alston to see how she is taking it . . . but Mrs. Alston has swallowed it whole. She becomes slightly more animated and says it has been a great pleasure to meet General Morley after so many years. General Morley smiles delightfully and says it is always so nice to be able to give pleasure to others. He then shakes hands with us both and adds, “Please don’t bother to come to the door with me, Hester. I can find my own way quite easily.”

  Soon after he has gone Mrs. Alston takes her departure and, as she is going to see Miss Crease, I conduct her to the side gate which will be more convenient for her.

  Mrs. Alston lingers, leaning upon the gate. “I must say General Morley is very strange,” says Mrs. Alston.

  It is difficult to defend Tony, because I realise that he certainly has behaved a little strangely this afternoon.

  “I can’t make him out at all,” she adds thoughtfully.

  “When you know him well . . .”

  “You know him well, of course.”

  “Tim and I have known him for years and years.”

  Mrs. Alston hesitates and then says, “It was a curious coincidence that he happened to be in Rome while you were there, wasn’t it?”

  “He had business in Rome,” I tell her firmly.

  “Oh, I see,” says Mrs. Alston.

  As I walk back slowly to the house I decide that the afternoon has been a complete failure. Nobody has enjoyed it. Mrs. Alston is dreary beyond words; it seems incredible that I should ever have liked the woman and been amused by her conversation. Tony has gone in a huff; the visit to Wandlebury is off; the world is stale, flat and unprofitable.

  Such are my feelings as I open the glass door of the drawing room, but they undergo a swift transformation when I find Tony comfortably ensconced in the largest and most comfortable chair.

  “What a curious taste you have in friends,” says Tony.

  “She thinks so, too,” I reply, smiling at him. “She thinks you’re very strange. She can’t make you out at all.”

  “Well, hurry up,” says Tony. “It’s no good going to Wandlebury, the shops will all be shutting, but we can go for a drive.”

  After the stress and strain of the afternoon it is sheer bliss to lie back in Tony’s comfortable car and enjoy myself. We glide along slowly—for once Tony seems content to drive at a reasonable speed—and the pageant of the English countryside delights my eyes. It is so long since I have been in England that I had forgotten how beautiful it is. There are softly rounded hills; there are leafy woods; there are parks with great trees, standing alone in all the glory of their early summer foliage. There are little streams dawdling amongst green meadows and little villages which nestle in hollows; cosy peaceful villages, the cottages built of honey-coloured stone with moss and lichen growing on their roofs . . . and nearly every cottage has a little garden full of gay flowers. Here we see old men sitting in the doorways, enjoying the sunshine, women with pink cheeks and white aprons, gossiping to one another, and groups of children who wave to us as we pass. Here is a church with a square solid tower, there is a field of ripe hay with men and women working in it.

  Presently we come to an old hump backed bridge which spans a lazy stream. There is an old mill here, a red-roofed house surrounded by trees, and beside the mill there is a ford. A farm wagon is crossing the ford and Tony stops the car so we can watch its passage. It is very quiet—so quiet and still that we can hear the splash of the horse’s hoofs and the rattle of the wheels on the pebbles.

  Somehow I have the feeling that I have been here before. I have seen the old mill and the trees reflected in the calm green water; I have seen the meadows and the clouds; I have seen the farm wagon with its big wooden wheels and the man in his shirt-sleeves driving it. The feeling is so strong that I break the silence with an exclamation of surprise.

  “What is it?” asks Tony.

  “I’ve been here before—but I haven’t. I mean—I must have dreamt about it—even the hay-cart.”

  “The haywain,” says Tony, turning and smiling at me. “Yes, I had the same feeling.”

  “You felt you had been here before? But we can’t both have dreamt it!”

  “We didn’t,” he replies. “As a matter of fact I’m no dreamer. For a few moments I was puzzled . . . and then I knew.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Tony.”

  “And yet it’s quite simple. You’ve seen Constable’s picture of The Haywain and so have I.”

  It is true, of course. The scene is exactly like Constable’s picture, a coloured photogravure of which hung in the drawing room of the little house at Donford. Whether or not this is really the exact place where the picture was painted we do not know for, as Tony says, there are thousands of fords and mills and haywains in England . . . but somehow I like to think it is.

  By this time the wagon has crossed the ford and rumbled away.

  Part III

  The Serpent in the Garden

  Monday, 16th July

  Mrs. Daulkes has definite ideas as to what I am to do and what I am not to do in the house. At first it was a little difficult and I found myself a frequent offender against her notions of propriety, but now I am beginning to learn the rules. I may make my bed and dust, but I must not clean the bath nor polish the furniture; if she is “in a rush” I may use the vacuum cleaner, but not on the stairs. In the kitchen it is even more complicated for I am allowed to make a cake but not a pudding and I may wash up after tea but not after any other meal. Doing the flowers is my province; Mrs. Daulkes never interferes with that.

  “I’m no good with flowers,” says Mrs. Daulkes. “Never ’ad a taste for arranging them. Sometimes they ’ave competitions at the Women’s Institute—a bowl of spring flowers—but I never bother myself. It’s ladies’ work arranging flowers,” adds the remarkable woman with a curious mixture of admiration and contempt.

  The flowers need attention this morning so I take the basket and a pair of scissors and sally forth to cut some fresh ones for a tall glass jar. It is a pleasant task and I am taking my time about it when suddenly I am addressed by a voice which seems to come from the sky.

  “Mrs. Christie!” says the voice in peremptory tones.

  I turn and look up and behold the small, sallow face of Miss Crease above the garden wall. This wall is at least six feet high and nothing of Miss Crease is visible except her queer little face and her fur hat and her two little claw-like hands gripping the ivy with which the wall is covered. She looks like a sort of wizened Humpty Dumpty and, if I had not seen her before, I should be considerably alarmed.

  “I suppose you’re annoyed because I haven’t been to see you,” says Miss Crease in complaining tones. “I’ve had a chill, that’s why. I’ve had to stay in bed ever since I got home and very dull it has been. Nobody came near me except Rosa Alston, and she isn’t much catch.”

  “I’d have come if I had known—”

  “Travelling doesn’t suit me,” declares Miss Crease unappeased. “Especially nowadays with the carriages so draughty.”

  “Draughty!” I exclaim.

  “That’s what I said—draughty. There was a draught in that carriage.”

  “But
I shut everything. It was terribly stuffy—”

  “There was a draught,” says Miss Crease firmly. “I could feel it blowing down the back of my neck.”

  “You had a fur collar.”

  “I had no scarf. There was a scarf in my bag, of course, but I didn’t want to trouble you to get it out for me.”

  This surprises me a good deal.

  “I wish I had,” adds Miss Crease fretfully.

  It is very difficult to converse with Miss Crease because I seem unable to find the right thing to say at the right moment. It is also very uncomfortable; I am beginning to get a crick in my neck from looking up at her. These circumstances, combined with the absurdity of the conversation, remind me of the conversation between Alice and Humpty Dumpty and I have some difficulty in stifling my giggles.

  “I see nothing to laugh at,” says Miss Crease.

  “No, of course not,” I reply hastily. “I’m not laughing. I’m very sorry indeed that you’ve been ill. I hope you’re better.”

  “I’m better or I wouldn’t be here,” she replies crossly.

  “How did you get there?” I enquire, for this is a mystery which has been teasing me since the first moment of her appearance.

  “I’m standing upon the kitchen steps; it’s very dangerous and uncomfortable and most unsuitable for a woman of my age.”

  The reply to this is obvious but I refrain from uttering it.

  “I wanted to speak to you,” she continues. “There was no other way of speaking to you. I might have written you a note of course—that hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “Or telephoned,” I suggest.

  “I don’t telephone,” she replies shortly.

  There is no suitable comment to make upon this curious statement so I make none and there is a slight pause.

  “It has worried me considerably,” continues Miss Crease. “I’ve watched you sitting in the garden every afternoon. Why don’t you attend to the Maggie Motts?”

  I gaze at her, speechless with surprise.

  “The Maggie Motts,” repeats Miss Crease loudly.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Those violas are called Maggie Mott.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “You ought to pick off the dead ones.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaims Miss Crease impatiently. “Don’t you know anything about gardening? You’ll never get a second flowering if you don’t pick off the dead ones.”

  “No, I mean yes, I suppose I should.”

  “Of course you should.”

  “The fact is I thought the gardener—”

  “Abijah Rannish is a very good gardener but you can’t expect him to do that. You had better get onto it at once,” adds Miss Crease in her usual peremptory manner.

  Now that the order has been given I expect to see the head disappear and I watch somewhat anxiously, for I am aware it is easier to mount a ladder than to descend from it, but Miss Crease has not done with me yet.

  “Did you enjoy your visit to Rome?” she asks, shooting the question at me so suddenly that I am slightly taken aback.

  “Yes,” I reply. “Yes, it was very interesting indeed. Of course I was only there for two days, but—”

  “But it’s wonderful what a lot of interesting things you can do in two days,” declares Miss Crease. She cackles maliciously and disappears.

  For a few moments I remain, staring at the top of the wall, petrified with astonishment at the startling manner in which she has vanished from view. Has Miss Crease fallen? Ought I to do something about it? I listen intently but there are no groans; there is no sound at all . . . no sound but the singing of the birds in the quiet garden.

  I pick up the basket and continue my interrupted task and, now that I have recovered from the shock of her sudden disappearance, I find myself pondering upon her parting words: it’s wonderful what a lot of interesting things you can do in two days.

  There is a certain species of serpent which is said to have a sting in its tail.

  Tuesday, 17th July

  A letter from Tim arrives this morning but it is slightly disappointing. I wrote Tim a full account of all my adventures and hoped for suitable comments in reply but all Tim says in comment is, “Thank you for your nice long letter,” and goes on to describe a cocktail party at the mess (and as cocktail parties are all much the same, especially in a place where the number of guests is limited and one meets the same people over and over again, the description does not thrill me to the core). It is always disappointing when one’s efforts in letter-writing are not appreciated but most probably the explanation is that Tim wrote this letter in the office and had left my letter at home. The postscript is surprising: “If you like the house so much why not take it on for the whole winter?”

  I gaze at Tim’s postscript incredulously. Why not? Because we arranged I was to fly out to Kenya in October and spend the winter there! What does Tim mean? Is it just a sudden wild idea or does he really mean it? Does he mean I am not to go out to Kenya—and, if so, why?

  Letters really are very aggravating sometimes. Especially aggravating when the writers are so far away and there is no hope of getting an explanation of a puzzle for nearly a fortnight. In a fortnight one has forgotten what one asked and the answer falls flat . . . or else, if it is something important, one lives on tenterhooks for a fortnight and then finds that one’s correspondent has forgotten to reply.

  Very carefully I re-read Tim’s letter and try to conjure up the state of mind of the writer. The letter is hastily written—that much is obvious. Perhaps it was finished with the orderly standing by, waiting to include it in the mail. Tim’s letters are often finished like that. I decide to write and ask for an explanation and meantime not to worry. Tim’s next letter will probably clear up the mystery.

  I have just arrived at this sensible and satisfactory decision when Miss Phipps calls with my new dress. She has taken a little longer than she promised but as the garment is finished and fits me well I am pleased with Miss Phipps.

  “It’s just what I wanted,” I tell her as I survey myself in the long mirror which is fixed to the wall in my bedroom.

  “Yes,” agrees Miss Phipps. “Yes, it fits nicely and the colour suits you. I thought I might have to alter it a little but there’s nothing to alter. It’s very satisfactory when things turn out so well. Of course you have such a good figure, Mrs. Christie. That makes it a lot easier. Some people are so difficult to fit. Take Mrs. Meller, for instance . . .”

  But I have no wish to take Mrs. Meller, nor any of the other rotund clients who visit Miss Phipps, so I compliment her on her skill and tell her I shall wear the dress now and edge towards the door.

  “Mrs. Meller is so fussy,” continues Miss Phipps as she gathers up the paper, folds it very slowly and carefully, and packs it into the box. “You’d think a lady like that, with no figure at all, wouldn’t mind very much what she looked like—I mean she could never look elegant no matter what she wore—but you’ve no idea the trouble she is; she brings back her things three or four times wanting them taken in here and let out there. I get quite impatient with her sometimes.”

  “What a pity!” I remark.

  “Perhaps you don’t know her,” continues Miss Phipps. “She ought to call on you of course; she’s the vicar’s wife. Mrs. Barton (she was the wife of the last vicar) always called on new people. A very different sort of lady, she was. Everyone liked her—and him too. The Mellers are not liked,” adds Miss Phipps in significant tones.

  “What a pity!” I remark. I have made this remark before but can think of nothing more appropriate.

  “Then there’s Miss Stroude,” continues Miss Phipps as she takes a piece of string from her pocket and, very slowly and carefully, ties up the box. “Miss Stroude is much too thin to look well in nice clothes. It’s an awkward angular figure, very difficult to fit. I’ve never had much to do for her of course—just altering things sometimes—and to tell th
e truth I never liked undertaking work for Miss Stroude. I remember one dress I altered for her and she was very nasty about it; she said I had spoilt it and refused to pay. It upset me dreadfully, not that I minded about the money—it was the nasty things she said. Of course I always made for Mrs. Stroude . . . and I often get things to do for Miss Crease.”

  Miss Phipps is a born gossip. She talks on and on, delaying her departure as long as she can. I am forced to listen to all sorts of stories about my new neighbours, some of them trivial and others scandalous in the extreme. At last however I manage to get rid of her and go out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.

  The garden is “kept” by a curious gnome-like man who rejoices in the name of Abijah Rannish and comes at odd hours to do his work. Sometimes he arrives at six o’clock in the morning and I am awakened—not unpleasantly—by the whirr of the lawn mower. I have tried to make contact with him but, so far, have failed for he is a taciturn creature and avoids me whenever possible, hiding amongst the raspberry bushes when he sees me coming and, if pursued and questioned, answering with unintelligible grunts. But although he is unsatisfactory socially, he is an excellent gardener—the garden bears witness to that.

  There are rows of peas and beans, there are crisp, juicy lettuces, there is a bed of asparagus (and, besides these, all the other vegetables one could ask for) and as I am extremely fond of fresh vegetables, nicely cooked, I am in clover. I like to look at them too, for to my mind a well-kept kitchen garden is entrancing and especially entrancing if it possesses a south wall with peach trees and pear trees trained upon it so that the dark brown twigs and green leaves and delicately coloured blossoms make elegant patterns. Here nature and skill mingle to produce something which is both natural and artificial but wholly delightful to the eye. Abijah’s well-trained peach trees remind me of a ballet, where the natural, beautiful bodies of the dancers are trained in the artificial postures of the dance.